Childhood Memory. Flash Fiction.

Dana cocked her head to the side, she could still hear that music, so very faint, just on the edge of her hearing. She looked around for a source, but could see none, no one else on the street seemed to hear it, but there was just something about it. It felt warm, inviting, familiar. Somewhere in the back of her mind a memory struggled to come to the surface, she had heard it before, when she was a young girl. She had been standing at the lights with her grandfather, waiting to cross, his warm, rough hand holding hers tightly, he was always a little worried she’d just dash into the street. While they were waiting she noticed a young man, looking around, she tried to figure out what he was looking at and then she heard it. It sounded like a violin, she looked around for whoever was playing it, sometimes her grandfather would let her stand and watch the buskers for a few minutes, he’d even give her a few coins to give them if they were good. She wanted to see whoever was playing, the image of the musician already appearing in her head, a young girl, with smooth skin and a beautiful smile, she would be playing with her eyes closed, feeling the music. She was pulled from her thoughts as the lights changed and her grandfather stepped forward, hand still tightly holding hers. The young man crossed the road with them, then with a small smile on his face he slipped between two buildings into an alley. The music was definitely coming from there but she couldn’t see anyone and then they were past the alley and the music faded to nothing.

Dana looked around, it was definitely the same song and some part of her knew it was the same musician, that girl in her head, still young and beautiful. She crossed the road, the music was getting louder as she went. There, between a sweet shop and a burger place, a small alley, the music was coming from there. She paused at the entrance to it, the alley itself was empty and it didn’t look like a short cut to anywhere, it seemed like it just dead ended after about two hundred feet. She couldn’t see the violinist, maybe they were standing in one of the recessed doorways, getting a bit of practise in before they started busking properly on the street. She couldn’t just let that kind of wonderful music pass by unnoticed, even if she could just find out the name of that song, it reminded her so much of her grandfather for some reason. Suddenly she could smell him, the warm tang of cigarette smoke, the faint whiff of peppermint and the deep rich smell of his leather jacket. She found herself moving forward, she needed to know what song it was, she needed to see it being played. She moved down the alley, not looking into the alcoves as she passed, the music was getting louder.

Dana stood in the middle of the alley, staring at the violinist, she was exactly as Dana had pictured, young, with a small smile, her eyes were closed as she played the music, long black hair swaying gently back and forth with the woman’s movements. Dana listened with tears in her eyes. She took a step forward, the woman opened her eyes and smiled at Dana, though she didn’t stop playing. Her eyes were a deep and rich hazel, Dana felt as though she was falling into them, nothing mattered but the sound of the music and those beautiful eyes. Without hesitation the woman stopped playing, her bow sweeping out and swiftly slicing into Dana’s neck, only missing a beat the woman resumed playing, Dana stood there with a small smile on her face as blood flowed freely down her body, after a moment Dana collapsed to the ground. The woman stopped playing, she reached out with her hands, the violin and bow shifting and changing into long claws. She drove them deep into Dana’s chest and she began to drag the body backwards into her lair.


About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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